


Of Lovers and the Flu

by Silberias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Gen, M/M, down with the flu, remembering that sick does not mean the same thing over there, researching UK over the counter medicines is a bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock falls ill with flu, and John and Molly take care of him. Simple, sweet little Jollock piece about comforting and caring for an ailing consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Lovers and the Flu

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Jollock because there needs to be more Jollock in the world. 
> 
> ~Sil

Sherlock had the flu, though he wouldn’t admit it in the least even as John held him still and Molly dosed him with cough syrup or forced him to drink a whole glass of water with his fever reducer pills. The only real reason they’d noticed he was sick was he’d slept in one morning a few days ago—of course he’d been sniffling a bit the night before and occasionally clearing his throat but those hadn’t quite added up to _The Flu_ in anyone’s minds. Except maybe Sherlock’s, but he wasn’t sharing.

Molly had gotten up early to shower, while John had wandered out sometime in between and gotten breakfast started—just toast and eggs, really, but since it was all they could really get Sherlock to eat in the mornings it was what they had. _Coffee isn’t food, Sherlock_ , one of them would try to remind him when he made as if to slip away without eating.

They’d had breakfast together, trying to be quiet—if Sherlock was asleep, let him stay that way, if Sherlock was awake then their lack of noise would make him curious and they’d get him to take a few bites of toast with his coffee when he came out to the living room. Sherlock Holmes was definitely a fan of every meal starting after brunch, but never breakfast as such. When they were finished—John first, staying to smile a bit at Molly flirting with him over the last of her fried egg—they tiptoed into Sherlock’s room. John held Molly from behind, tucking his chin over her shoulder and his arms around her waist.

“Certainly doesn’t look like an angel this way,” John murmured. He meant Sherlock’s legs tangled in the sheets, the odd snoring, and the truly horrific bedhair poking out from the nest of blankets.  One foot, sticking out from the comforter, twitched just a little as though it was on watch for the rest of the detective’s body and brain.

“Pity he didn’t remember we were spending the night up in your room—“

“Especially after he said he would come up when—dear Lord, do you think he’s gotten ill?!” Sherlock had spent several days, about a year ago, committing birthdays and anniversaries to his mind, and with that had come a knack for remembering little domestic promises like cleaning the dishes or coming to bed on time. He only rarely forgot, and usually when he was ill or far too excited to even process John and Molly as lovers rather than assistants.

Hence John sitting behind Sherlock on the couch, holding him still while Molly coaxed him into taking his medicines.

“My whole body aches.”

“I know,” John soothed, rubbing comforting circles over the muscle groups likely bothering Sherlock the most. Molly tutted from the kitchen and went looking for some Anadin.

“I was sick all night.”

“And you were silent as a graveyard about it, too. We would’ve been glad to sit up with you, you know.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, burying his head in the crook of John’s neck. He always turned into a big baby when he was ill. They tolerated his whining because, in Molly’s words, it was a treat to take care of him when he was basically helpless. His demands certainly lessened, as though he understood that he couldn’t push John or Molly’s limits because he was already at his own.

“It’s sweet, in a way,” Molly said, sitting down at John’s side and petting her fingers through Sherlock’s hair with her free hand. The Anadin was in her hand, and a glass of water was sitting on the table, “that you were trying to keep us from worrying over you. That’s where you get the silly idea that caring isn’t an advantage, doing things that leave you alone and uncomfortable. Now, give me your hand.” She put two tablets in Sherlock’s hand and then reached for the water.

The detective took it and downed the tablets with a few quick gulps, finishing the entire cup before handing it back to Molly. He reached for her hand once she was done setting the empty water glass down, and she wrapped both hands around his larger one.

“I love you, both of you,” he said, his forehead still resting on John’s neck and chin while his eyes were fixed on where Molly held his hand. John chuckled a little at that.

“So that’s what got you—makes you sick that you of all people fell in love?” Sherlock weakly batted at John’s arm with his free hand, which had John grinning widely.

“It’s certainly what has me being well taken care of during a bout of flu. Which you’ll both probably get—John first, then you, Molly—since you’re being so closely attentive now. Remember, I got the flu shot and still caught it. Doubt either of you—wait.”

John and Molly both grinned, a bit of a mad gleam in both of their eyes. Sherlock’s momentary jauntiness faded quickly as he continued:

“Medical professionals have to be all up and up on their shots, don’t they?”

 


End file.
